


Pull down the shades

by afterearth



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: An Attempt At Slow Burn, Awkward Din Djarin, Domesticity, Dubious Morality, F/M, Miscommunication, Not with Din, Previous dubcon themes, Trust Issues, capable protag, domesticity kink, exploration of canon Mandalorian culture, feelings first then sex, reader was a former sex worker, slavery typical in star wars, smart protag, with non-canon additions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterearth/pseuds/afterearth
Summary: A Mandalorian shows up and the unsettling dread everyone has who might have a bounty on their head hears the resounding, unforgettable sound of spurs."Take that one and be pleased. She speaks multiple languages, is skilled in finances and cultural studies. She also dances and fucks. Be pleased."This one has no spurs, but he nonetheless ushers in the end of the life you know.A love story.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 21
Kudos: 88





	1. hard living

There’s always a smoky veil from spice hookahs that settles like the quiet fog from a place you barely remember. It rolls over thick, mixing with the various vapors from drinks, cigars, death sticks, snuffs, and perfumes. It might be too much if the air filters of the place weren’t such high quality. 

But every part of this place is high quality, bought and paid for with an iniquitous amount of credits. Gaudy in its very existence, it nonetheless draws the bored wealthy and powerful - or those who have a brief moment of either and decide to find themselves here like a sinner stumbling into a church with red palms hoping for some celestial being to help them ascend the vessel they fill.

Folds of color - aqua, rose, chartreuse, lilac - are hung artfully over the circular stage lit with accompanying colored lights meant to compliment the shade of the night are always festooned in something eye catching; whole fresh flower blooms, shards of crystal, flakes of gold or silver glitter. To the side of the silks, in the darkened edges of the stage, hangs the durasteel lyra on a rotational tract for convenience. The faithful companion of the silks. 

When you work on the silk draped from the ceiling, it’s a freeing departure from your reality. 

You prefer it when the song is slow, when the audience is interested but not clamoring for you to remove your clothes. It’s classier, what you do. Has its roots in a setting removed from sexual purposes; it’s a thing of patience and control, of beauty and diligence that has been warped to suit the needs of this place you now reside. 

When the music is right, when the audience is right, it’s magic. It’s  _ right _ . It is a dying artform even where you’re from and it deserves its place among all the skeletonized art of the galaxy. It deserves a little respect. It does, even if no one will afford you any. 

The audience isn’t right tonight though. The music is. It’s a slow beat with drums and low male vocals, an old acoustic guitar. Your performances never hinge on the newer beats in the galaxy; that’s for the other entertainers. They rely on faster-paced environments where there is no seduction in it, there’s no element of anticipation in what they do. 

You rise with the catch of the singer’s vocal, wrap yourself up and around the silk, bunching it at your thigh, your waist. You roll up and balance and begin a slow revolution above the heads of the audience members closest to the stage. Legs spread in a side frontal split, your garment hides nothing and everything. 

Tonight the silk has flowers in it, so there are petals falling onto your shoulders, in your cleavage, and on the floor. The revolution is uninterrupted as the vocals crescendo in agony, of a love never meant to last, and you spin down on it. Hanging upside down, you don’t quite reach the floor but the circle you spin slowly constricts until it stops. 

You slide down with an ease that betrays how difficult it can be to maneuver in such a way into a folded pose, legs curled to the side. The song ends. 

You hear some unenthusiastic clapping, someone angrily shouts that you aren’t naked enough, some genuine appreciation, and you consider it a mixed show. 

And then there is no noise but the band on the other side. 

You can’t see the doorway due to the position of the lights, a harsh dark pink tonight, but you notice the direction everyone seems to be looking in. Bounty hunters are a dime a dozen on Nar Shaddaa. The moon is crawling with the desire to take and take until there is very little of the person you were left. 

That said, Mandalorians are a rare breed of hunter. Everyone takes notice when one of them shows up. 

And there he is with a beskar helmet with its signature blackened visor. Even in the poor lighting, you can see he’s a little bit of a patchwork creature, made from parts that aren’t of himself alone. Scavenged portions of the hunted, of enemies, like collecting ears during a war, you think. He gets closer and you still sit on stage, waiting for the next signal to continue on with the show, but the stage manager seems to have forgotten. 

A Mandalorian shows up and the unsettling dread everyone has who might have a bounty on their head hears the resounding, unforgettable sound of spurs. Expecting green beskar and a jetpack. Expecting someone at some point to lose their nerve and flee.  _ Fett _ . You’d met him a few times. Intimidating, but not so terrifying. But - you’ve never had a bounty on your head and Fett had liked you because you were nice to look at. He’d been someone easy to perform for; he’d recognized your work for the art it was. 

But this one isn’t Fett. Not so bulky and his carriage is different. Fett, while he’d never been exactly _polite_ had certainly been more reasonable than most others who requested a private show, had still carried himself with the knowledge that yes, he could and would kill with the slightest provocation - it hadn’t frightened you at that point but you were certainly  _ aware  _ of it. 

This one has a sleeker grace to him, something vaguely more, dare you say so,  _ lonesome _ . Not so crass as the idea that sometimes during private shows you do have to sidle up to a client and mar your artform with sexuality that has no place in it. But this one, this Mandalorian, this hunter, is certainly different and the same as Fett. Not brazen, but confident in a quieter way. 

He prowls, long strides eating up the distance to the bar where the twi’lek bartender is already shirking away. The den is still relatively quiet. 

Three Trandoshans watch him keenly, hands below the table. A group of Gand huddle, weapons close at hand. 

You slink back further from the edge of the stage, staying low all the while. Beneath your hands, your thighs, flower petals are crushed and release a sweet smell. 

There exists a tension like an electrified wire in the den. Mandalorians have a tendency to do that. Fett had been the same. Even you, immune as you are to the hunters and those that do cruelty upon cruelty on the world, feel it anxiously. 

The Mandalorian sits at the bar. The twi’lek bartender, a cad named Lorn, is wringing his hands. You wonder who would bother to pay to put a bounty on him. He’s not dangerous, but he  _ is  _ disgusting. He has wandering hands, thinks running the bar is enough to entitle him to all the performers. Zurban only tolerates him because he’s a cousin of so-and-so who runs a private, lucrative spice spider farm. 

The lights from your show are still on and the room’s focus on the Mandalorian dies down. Just business now, and it looks like none of the other patrons are in his sights. 

The silks retract, the lyra moves in its tract and you rise to meet it. Another song fills the air. It’s the sweet, low crooning of a woman disappointed with all the songs that said it would be easier. You commiserate with her on it while balancing on the curve of the hoop, lifting and letting your thighs take your weight. 

You spin like a top, faster with the vocalist’s lovely frustration. The lights change to a light blue. While spinning, you lift, turn, unclasp your slitted dress. It slides from you like a snake shedding its skin. A cheer ripples through the crowd. You still have something on; vintage underwear from a bygone time. 

You see Lorn pointing to you and your heart skips a beat, lungs stutter in your rhythm while you smile and toss kisses to the crowd. The Mandalorian turns. 

The show must go on even when the dread you never felt around Fett coils its fist on you. 

The Mandalorian vanishes sometime when your chemise flutters to the stage floor, when your gloves are pulled off by a playful Zabrak woman in the front after you extend a hand to her. 

He is waiting in the back when the curtains fall and your show is over. 

It feels less like the expectation of an encore and more like a swan song. 

Your heart is a drum beat of desperate concern in your ears. Your blood is cold and you stand before him, you in your lingerie, still misted in a light sheen of sweat from your aerial set. He is impossible, impassable, immovable in his height, bearing, with his armor and weapons. You want to flap your decorative fan with its fluffy feathery ends and detailed lace placement and coquettishly excuse yourself. 

But you’re afraid that if you reach for it he might shoot you.  _ Bounty hunters _ .

“They don’t usually let people backstage,” you say, try to think of a way to evade his presence. “I’m not sure what Lorn said about the policy here -”

“I need to speak with your employer,” he cuts you off. His voice is modulated, a little softer than you’d thought despite not having any real expectation about him. Raspy, too. Deep.

You blink. This isn’t the best place to make an appointment, first of all, and Zurban isn’t so much your  _ employer  _ as your  _ owner _ . “Have you spoken with Leena?” Politeness and ease of communication has always saved you. The Mandalorian isn’t here for pleasure or levity; this is business so you save the charm. You don’t need to piss off someone from a strict warrior culture that specializes in hunting and combat. 

“I don’t know who that is.” The voice is flat, unamused at your play. 

It isn’t one, not really. Leena and you are the only ones with access to Zurban’s schedule and accounts being that you both were raised with an education before you came to be here. But you have to perform tonight which means _Leena_ should be the contact he needs to reach. Why Lorn didn’t tell him that is beyond you, but you can only assume that Lorn just wanted him far away and so he set him on you. Useless ass.

“Leena is Master Zurban’s assistant for tonight,” you explain easily. “I can take you to her, but -”

“The bartender said I needed to speak to you.” His voice doesn’t change, his stance is the same, but there’s an impatience to him now that you don’t ignore. 

You should stretch before you’re called up again, you should hydrate, listen to the songs before you’re up - but you react to the instinctive clench of warning in you. 

“I can take you to him and let Leena know I’m escorting you,” you say. “She’ll need to be the one to let you in and greet you,” you compromise. 

The helmet tips down. “Thank you.” 

Manners on a bounty hunter? You and Leena could titter about it over a cocktail. 

He waits for you to start walking, so you do. Your heels click and echo. You don’t bother to ask questions beyond what Zurban will want to know: 

“Did you have an appointment?” 

“Were you expecting to collect on a previous job? If so, then I’ll need to direct you to Utii; she handles payouts.” 

“Are you attempting to solicit?” 

“Were you given direct contact information to reach out to Master Zurban?” 

His answers are brief, curt: 

“No.” 

“No.” 

“No.” 

“I was informed he requested me.” 

_ Mandalorians.  _

As if politeness doesn’t have its uses. You know courtesy, had been raised in it, and continue to use it to your advantage even in these less than advantageous situations. 

You ask for appropriate details to confirm the request: the sender, the planet of the sender’s origin, a passcode keyphrase given only to those who Zurban reaches out to. 

Leena’s shared office space with you is dark, empty. That is mildly concerning, but Zurban might be with her in his private den. You move forward to hit the lights and a strong gloved hand yanks you back so suddenly you stumble on your heels. 

He pulls you back and before you speak, puts a finger up in silent assertion. You fall silent. 

His hand hovers over his blaster and he turns the lights on. The office is a wreck. Datapads, datadisks, datachips are flung in all directions, some are broken beyond repair or scuffed and you immediately have to still any reaction. These are private accounts and records and reports that belong to Zurban and his organization. Leena and you are the gatekeepers for this information; he relies on the both of you to organize and track everything before it gets filtered to his other managers who specialize in various fields of his business ventures. 

“Leena?” you call out and hope to hear an answer. There won’t be one, though. Someone went through everything with the intention to destroy or perhaps copy and then leave destruction behind. 

“Is she a Twi’lek?” the Mandalorian asks you abruptly. 

“She is,” you shakily confirm. You expect that you’ll see her body on the ground. You can't even guess how anyone got back here. It's secure. 

The attached office leads out to a wide area that functions as a waiting room that is typically filled with guards. It’s the only place Zurban will meet people in openly; his space is dominated by a flexible translucent shield inspired by gungan tech. It has a lift that sinks into his private den that is a functional bunker. 

And it is in that direction that the Mandalorian is staring. You follow his gaze. 

Leena is on her knees in the chamber. Her hands are cuffed in front of her and her shoulders are shaking. Zurban is present. 

You step around the Mandalorian who has now more or less relaxed, and approach the scene with a great building dread. It is the swoop of a ship entering the atmosphere under the unsteady hands of a green pilot. It is the failure to grasp your lyra when you perform a split and hop. It is the feeling of falling from a great height, unable to even mentally prepare yourself to brace for the impact that will break you to pieces. 

One of Zurban’s enforcers, a Barabel, hisses at your approach. Zurban blows smoke from his nostrils. His large gimlet eyes find you. Leena must notice movement because she looks up at you and you see that they’ve beaten her. 

Zurban gestures at Leena dismissively. “My most faithful pet has turned on me,” he drawls. “And you? Are you a thief as well?” 

You stiffen and look away from Leena slowly, eyes dropping in respect before you address him. He’s speaking in Basic. There is no surer sign that this is something incredibly catastrophic. Hutts hate speaking in Basic. “Of course not, Master Zurban. I am grateful for your protection and oversight. May I ask what has happened?” 

Stealing? From the  _ Hutts _ ? Leena? Has she lost her damn mind? 

“Leena has been in league with an embezzler. An accountant I trusted Inner Rim accounts to. Since the fall of the glorious Empire, I’ve entrusted appropriate assets to one who may move more freely…” He monologues a good deal more, and you mostly tune in when it’s necessary, the Mandalorian looming behind you. 

He trusts an offshore agent, an “accountant”, with assets that do not need to be in the protective orbit of the lawlessness of the Outer Rim. A launderer. No - not  _ trusts _ .  _ Trusted _ . Past tense. 

Leena whimpers to your left and you steadfastly ignore her, all too aware that you might attract Zurban’s wrath. Leena might as well have cast you as another partner in her scheme; you two work too closely for him to not be suspicious, although your specialities differ. Leena has always overseen the spice and slave accounts, you have overseen the politics outside of the Hutt clans. They tie into one another, but never quite so much that you knew the daily tasks of the accounts she handles, nor would she know the records and accounts you track. 

You notice the lull in Zurban’s dialogue and swiftly move to interject your purpose before he decides you need immediate interrogation. “Master, forgive me for interrupting, but this bounty hunter has come in response to your request sent to Guildmaster Greef Karga, stationed on planet Nevarro, with the correct passcode: Vogga.” 

Zurban hums. “ _ Mando _ .” 

The Mandalorian moves around you, cape brushing your bare legs. “You have a job?” 

Zurban grunts and waves over Utii, who hustles over, bringing with her a bounty puck. Zurban is clearly done with Basic and speaks in Huttese. 

Utii translates for him. “The Master desires this one to be found and delivered to Greef Karga. He is the accountant previously employed by the clan.” She hands the Mandalorian the puck. “Alive is preferable, but a decommissioned bounty will still give half of the set reward. The Master also has another job if you are able to complete the first bounty. It will take place on Nevarro and may extend beyond that. Will you accept?” 

“What is it?” he asks. 

Utii activates the puck. A holo of a Mythrol rotates. “The first bounty: his chain code, bio-sig, and last known location are included.” Zurban speaks again, rolling his fat tongue in his mouth as he smokes. “This one will pay when the bounty is turned in to your Guild leader and will pass along the new bounty to you first. It will pay handsomely if you are able to fulfill this bounty.” 

“Maldo Kreis? Karga told you I take half of my payments up front for dead zones.” The Mandalorian shifts, leather gloves creaking. 

“This one will pay when it is done. In meantime, he offers collateral -” Utii points. 

Right. At. You. 

You try not to stiffen, show no indication of dread on your face. This is a test and a punishment for something you had no hand in all in one. This is a strike against you, and one against the Mandalorian - no doubt you are to _watch_ him to prove yourself. What the hell are you supposed to do if he doesn't perform as Zurban wants? He's a _Mandalorian_. 

The Mandalorian doesn’t even wait a beat. “I don’t take collateral. Half of my payment up front, or I walk.” 

Zurban waves an arm, grumbling and laughing. 

“This one will pay, but he wants assurance you will not be paid off. Take the whore; she is good at what she does. Consider it not only assurance he will pay, but a bribe you won’t take another,” Utii recites monotonously. “This is not a negotiation, Mandalorian. You were not the first sent after this filth, and the others were paid to leave. Take that one and be pleased. She speaks multiple languages, is skilled in finances and cultural studies. She also dances and fucks. Be pleased. Or we will seek another.” 

You turn, against your better judgment, and meet the featureless face of the man who now owns you for the foreseeable future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couple notes: reader is assumed woc bc I am, but i've tried to make her as vague as possible. she was also a sex worker, again bc I am, before her time w/ zurban. if either of those bothers you, please fuck off out the door you came in.
> 
> going for a neo-noir/wild space western feel, something very different for me. feel free to leave me some love.


	2. the crossroads

Utii meets your eyes when the hunter gives Zurban the barest of agreements, a nod and a gritty: “Fine.” 

He approaches Zurban to continue speaking with him about payment and collateral when the Hutt motions for the hunter to come closer. The Mandalorian’s Huttese is passable, but he rolls some words he shouldn’t and speaks more informally than he should. He’s speaking too softly for Huttese; it’s not as commanding as it should be. He’s speaking like a servant, you manage to note and critique distantly even as something in you shakes with the fear of the unknown stretching out in front of you. 

The Balosarian woman approaches, cool hands on your shoulders. She smells like menthol and it’s on her breath when she speaks, dropping her formal, cold act. “This is temporary, my friend. Zurban is concerned...this second bounty, it will bring him great wealth. Maybe restore the Hutts to their glory during the Empire.” A manicured hand lays on your cheek. Nails catch on your skin delicately. “Assure the Mando does the job. Check the Mythrol’s records. Report back to us on your findings. And then it will be like nothing happened. He is not selling you,” she assures. “He just never expected Leena to be the one to turn on the hand that feeds…”

Zurban is no dream come true, but you’ve seen the Masters of the galaxy since you were kidnapped - and to say the least, you know he’s actually quite mild comparatively. You know how bad it could be. 

You hiss at Utii, knee-jerk out of your complacent shock: “I had no idea -”

“Hush, I know, I told him…”

“Did she lose her mind -?”

“Desperate, maybe. Stupid. But not crazy,” Utii says. “Stick close to the Mando...watch him.” 

A thought occurs in the maelstrom of others swirling in your head. “Utii...Zurban said the Mando wasn’t the first. How long have you both known about this?” 

You and Leena had been Zurban’s close assistants, but Utii has been with Zurban for a long, long time, even purchasing her freedom from him and remaining a steadfast employee - you and Leena had once believed this would be the best outcome for both of you, a success story for enslaved women. Now, it looks like you have to play spy in close quarters with a Mandalorian and hope you aren’t fed to Zurban’s kath hounds. 

It sounds like they might’ve been aware of this for a while and had simply been waiting for Leena to slip. And she did, catching you at the ankle to drag you down into the waters below with her. 

Utii’s antennapalps quiver. She gives you a thin lipped smile. “Don’t fuck up. I only barely managed to convince him not to kill you.” 

Your mouth parts a little, fear an animal in your ribs gnawing at your heart. “And Leena…?” 

Utii’s smile falls, her eyes shutter any emotions you might glean from her. Her hands press on you more insistently. “Gather your things, and don’t be stupid.” 

And so you find yourself boarding a pre-Empire ship not knowing where you stand with _anyone_. The Mandalorian seems content to ignore your presence and goes out of his way to avoid you - you think your state of dress, undress actually, makes him uncomfortable, which both comforts and raises your guard. You avoid eye contact, try to remain more than his arm’s length away, and begin to carefully catalogue his body language. 

Even anticipating the most minute movements, the tiniest observations people take for granted, has saved you a beating or worse when you were able to plan and pivot accordingly. You’re no warrior, but you _are_ a survivor. 

Utii has supplied you with several flight suits and jackets, and a bug to place on his ship, as well as a small distress beacon - in the event the Mandalorian doesn’t bring in the bounty and chooses to cash his chips in, you are to activate it. You never ask what happens to the hunters that choose to profit from the short-term plan. Zurban may be milder compared to others, but he is a Hutt. They don’t really do forgiveness. 

You don’t bother objecting; you are already skating on thin ice. Zurban cares little of the Mandalorian’s personal affairs, but he wants to make sure he isn’t going to cave to the bounty or hand the accountant off to someone else. He is oddly tight-lipped about the second bounty he’s offering the hunter if this run goes smoothly. Utii is aware of it - when is she not aware of anything? - but she gives no indication as to what about it is so important. She simply hustles you off to the Mandalorian, giving him the direction to be careful with you - you are expensive and only collateral, not a favor. 

You recognize she is sticking her neck out as far as she can for you. Zurban certainly didn’t say anything like that to either of you. 

“Where do I sleep?” you ask when you board the antique. 

The Mandalorian grunts. “Don’t care.” 

You roll your eyes. Mandalorians. Bounty hunters. Ugh. Despite your circumstances, you are still able to find yourself unimpressed with the Mandalorian’s manners and courtesy - the bread and butter of your survival. You notice he didn’t argue the bounty tag price when speaking with Zurban privately, despite the Hutt very obviously ignoring his policy about half payments upfront. He’s terrible at negotiating. 

You make your way to the hold, where you make several horrifying discoveries. You’ve never been on a military ship before, much less a gunship, and though the Razor Crest is large for a gunship that doesn’t extend to other areas. The fresher looks like it can barely hold one person and the sonic shower is a pullout capsule that looks ancient and you’re half afraid that if you need to use it, it may just cut you in half. 

You’ll endeavor to use the waterless cleaning kit you’ve made multiple uses of between performances. A clay and sand mixture in a sonic unfolding kit the size of a medpac that acts as its own disinfectant after each use - a native product in Ryloth. You never managed to ask Leena about it. You never will now. 

The weapons rack - does one person need this many weapons? - is less startling. Fett had always been armed to the teeth and this just seems to be a Mandalorian thing. 

It’s the carbonite freezer that makes you stop in your tracks even as the Mandalorian initiates takeoff without so much as a warning for you to strap in. You stumble into it in your heeled boots, hand resting on a block of something cool. It clacks against other blocks. You pull back and recognize what they are, because they are collectibles to Hutts. Zurban has two. 

Carbonite trophies. There are four in the Mandalorian’s freezer. 

You stumble away - you know how he hunts, how he stores his quarries, and you’ve been around the more dangerous places in the galaxy enough to know that you don’t ask questions about the things people keep. 

You’ve seen enough business on Nar Shaddaa to know better. 

The bug isn’t sensitive, but you’re nervous enough about its placement that it takes you a bit to decide where to attach it. He’s an elite hunter with an extensive background if Zurban went out of his way to ask for his services specifically. No one does that much for hunters anymore, since Fett went and died - then again, few could afford to retain his services constantly besides the Empire and the Hutts. 

You still couldn’t believe a smuggler killed him. 

The bug is attached under the co-pilot chair when you finally go up to sit beside him. You pretend to only shift your weight when you attach it. He doesn’t acknowledge you besides a tilt of his head, and you keep quiet, unsure of his mood or reactions as of yet. You don’t need an angry Mando in your face while hurtling through space, and you certainly don’t need a black eye or a bruised lip. 

Space passes. Distant stars look like moth eaten holes in a black blanket. It’s colder than you remember, and you’re thankful for the flight suits Utii supplied. Hyperspace is a tunnel vision of blurred color and stars. You’re thankful the Mandalorian has little interest in you, but it comes on the heels of a kind of loneliness you aren’t expecting. 

Is this what it’s like for him? Just silence and solitude in the vastness of space between hunts? Does he have a family? Spouse? Kids? Friends? 

Fett had always traveled alone too, you recall. Were Mandalorians all just solitary apex predators roaming the galaxy for the next hunt? You try not to think about it. The Mandalorian and Fett are not lonesome people looking for company, and you know that if either of them knew what your thoughts were, they’d be offended. 

Other people are more deserving of your pity and sympathy. You, for instance. Even Leena. 

And so it goes for the duration of your journey, within the general vicinity of each other and ignoring one another - at least, he ignores you, you are hyper aware of his movements, psychoanalyzing the barest tinges of emotion you’re able to glean from his body language, his voice. 

Maldo Kreis is what the Mandalorian said; a dead zone. It’s a frozen wasteland dotted here and there with a port, cantinas, and convenient motels, but it simply seems to be a stopover for long haul pilots, smugglers, or people looking to hide. 

For the first time in your uncomfortable voyage with him, you are faced with the prospect of needing to assert yourself. You’ve stayed out of his way as much as possible, but you need to verify stolen files before he sticks the Mythrol in carbonite - 

“No.” His voice growls through his modulator. Impatient. 

You swallow, remain polite and disaffected. He scares you. “I need to be there to verify what accounts he sold and which he had access to. I need to know routing numbers and track transmissions. Master Zurban will need an update before you turn him in - before you freeze him.” 

“You’re not coming with. Stay on the ship.” 

“The accountant -”

“I won’t freeze him until you’re done. Stay on the ship,” he says and the ramp lowers. 

The ship had been cold in space, it had gotten colder once you landed planetside, but this is _freezing_. Your flight suit flaps in the freezing winds screaming across a frozen desert and hugs your body tightly. You let out something like a squeal or a squeak and you turn away from the ramp. It shuts behind the Mandalorian and you sit in to wait, scrolling through your datapad. A checklist provided by Utii - one presumably beaten out of Leena. 

You’re torn about that, leaning in two directions like a tree that doesn’t know which way it wants to fall. On one hand, you and Leena are two sides of the same coin. Neither of you had been born in slavery, you were both well educated, had come from similar walks of life, and had both found yourselves purchased by Zurban after being torn away from lives you once had. 

Leena had been there before you, and when you’d shown similar promise as her, suddenly you weren’t in the massage parlor on the other side of town that belonged to Zurban, you were in his exclusive club, performing and being overworked as a second executive assistant. 

You know her. You went into this nearly completely together. And she sold you out for something you never had a hand in. Or at least implicated you to try to save herself. 

You hope he doesn’t kill her. You want to hope that he’ll forgive her and let her work her way back up, you want to hope nothing else will be done to her - 

But you’ve never been good at lying to yourself. Nar Shaddaa has no patience for dreamers. Being enslaved to someone has killed your hopes for something better. Deserving of something has nothing to do with anything and there is no real justice in the galaxy. You just have to get through this. Everyday is all about living to see the next to do the same thing; live. 

You are prepared to go hunting through Cor Gobint’s files and give an extensive update to Zurban and Utii when you reach Nevarro - you are not prepared for something to leap out of the thick ice, breaking it to pieces like worn cheesecloth, and attack the ship once he and the Mandalorian are on board.

You and the Mythrol scream when the ship is tugged back by the animal, metal screeching under the pressure of colossal jaws. The Mandalorian just casually slings his rifle off his back and prods the creature with enough voltage to make it groan in pain and release the landing gear. 

The excitement really only lasts but a minute, and once you’re enroute, you begin checking through Gorbint’s evidence of sticky fingers. He unhelpfully tries to speak with you and the Mandalorian while you slowly develop a headache across the top of your head, like your skin is being pulled back. 

There are layers and layers of bantha-shit to sift through before you can even come close to syncing up your tracing tool. It locks in place to his sole datapad while you cycle through datachips and begins ticking down each one. 

It spins lazily and you watch the numbers climb higher and higher. And then you hit a dead end. Several, in fact. The routing numbers don’t match the sectors, codes end up leading to faulty or defunct banking clan vaults...and there’s a transmission transcript that doesn’t look like it contains money or shipments of goods at all. It’s not in Aurebesh. You speak six languages fluently and you don’t even recognize what language this transmission was recorded in. 

If you can’t trace the credits, where they ended up, how they were spent, who spent them, what deals were made...you’re fucked. 

Gorbint gives you a disarming smile when you look up at him, folded tightly in a spare seat while the Mandalorian flies and the Mythrol takes the co-pilot seat. Your lips purse. 

“There’s an account I don’t recognize. Leena and I wouldn’t have had access to it...how did you come across it? It’s a transmission code. Why would you be interested in that?” Zurban’s bug is still recording passively, and will be until you reach Greef Karga to unload, then, presumably, it will deactivate and ideally the Mandalorian will be none the wiser. If he says something incriminating it might save you some trouble.

Gorbint clears his throat, glances at the Mandalorian, and excuses himself loudly to evacuate. 

_Gross_ . You just close your eyes and tilt your head back, feel your neck crack. Whatever it is, it’s _something_. Something big. And you recognize something in the transmission script you’re able to decipher, even though you aren’t a hacker. You can’t read it, it’s in a language you don’t speak and is likely encoded, but you know that wherever this transmission originated from? Its transmission signal origin code is Imperial. 

Curiosity weaves its way in, but you’re not stupid, so you leave it untouched. Gorbint obviously didn’t want to talk about it and you’re suddenly glad he never answered because the Mandalorian is a silent force, but one very aware of his surroundings. 

The Mandalorian stands and goes down after the Mythrol after a few moments. It’s but a minute before he’s back in the cockpit. 

“You weren’t getting anything else out of him,” the Mandalorian says. 

And then you know. “No,” you agree quietly. Your skin prickles. Cor Gorbint is frozen below this deck and you need to sleep in the hold eventually. Near the bodies. As unsettling as it is, it’s made far more so due to your precarious situation. If this goes sour, it could be you decorating Zurban’s club, frozen in carbonite, screaming soundlessly from the cold. 

“Get some rest. We’ll reach Nevarro in a couple days.” 

You do, and decidedly avoid looking anywhere near the freezer. You’ll need to wait until you’re on Nevarro before you can give Zurban an update. Sending out a transmission while trapped in with a bounty hunter, with said transmission talking about millions of credits? Sounds like trouble. Sounds like a good way to get yourself entangled in Republic business. 

You’re just happy the Mandalorian is more or less uninterested in you for what Zurban had offered - now, in what you see was meant as a way to distract him while you spied and bugged his ship - and that this is almost over. The Mandalorian will be paid, you will presumably be left in Greef Karga’s care while you squint your way trying to hunt down the last money trails, and then you’ll be sent back. 

Better than being dead. Better than being...whatever will happen to Leena.

You stay out of the way while you continue to poke and prod through the datapad’s restricted access. You’ll need better tools. Hopefully the Guildmaster will be able to provide. 

Nevarro is a desert planet, arid and dusty with pockets of townships here and there, but there doesn’t seem to be a standard port or docking area anywhere. It’s more rural than you expect for someone of the Mandalorian’s caliber. More rural than you expect Zurban would have reached out to. 

The Mandalorian confers with Greef - his hand shoots out to stabilize you when one of the grunts unloading the carbonite slabs jostles the ramp, nearly sending you off. He holds out his arm, so you clasp it in your hand. Firm muscle tenses beneath cloth and armor, but he helps you descend while Karga chuckles at the Mandalorian. Your hand slides from his forearm more slowly than you mean it to and you meet where you approximate his eyes might be, if he’s human and capable of sight. The moment draws on for a moment before you let it fall. 

You thank him politely and he offers a curt nod. Manners on a bounty hunter. He did that the first time too. People don’t often surprise you pleasantly like that. 

You glance over your shoulder as one of Karga’s men escorts you to where you’ll stay for the time being, until, apparently, Zurban requests your return. The Mandalorian meets your gaze, you think, visor following you. He’s warmer than you thought he’d be. 

He and Karga leave your sight when you turn and are presented a standalone suite attached to a main hub. It’s a dome structure, white, but clean and provides a small kitchenette and a shower with real water. You try not to squirm at the thought of an actual shower. 

The tradeoff goes smoothly, it must because shortly after, Utii contacts you with a smile and an order to begin your work - and then the days blur together while you report to Utii and Zurban about your findings, the latter of whom bellows at you to not even touch that transmission you found. He growls at Utii to send Karga explicit instructions about what is to happen to Gorbint, and what information must be extracted from him. 

The whereabouts of the credits and shipments are recovered slowly while you’re housed under Greef Karga’s gentlemanly care. Some are easily traced to patrons in the New Republic and Zurban begrudgingly cuts them free. The Hutts no longer occupy the airspace they once had, and their power is dwindling in the face of newer gangs emerging from the ashes of the Empire, from the ongoing civil war still somehow raging in the galaxy. 

Others are in the hands of budding new syndicates; Kanjiklub, Rinnvirin, and some new death syndicate - you don’t recognize the name, but you notice they boast a few Death Troopers. _Lovely_. 

Zurban roars in frustration. He’ll need to cut a deal to wrest control from the gangs if he wants to keep those accounts. 

As you relay information, however, you realize something is off. Something Leena undoubtedly had uncovered and kept from you. There’s not nearly as much spice or slave traffic as you thought. After Jabba died, the territory disputes among the Hutts gave way to all out family civil war, and somehow Zurban keeps out of it. 

The politicking talent you handle comes from tracking allies, enemies, their resources and assets and investments into Zurban’s empire, but you’ve never seen Leena’s side. 

New accounts made after the fall of the Empire. Shipyards. Mining operations. Weapons developments. Training facilities. A specialized droid factory that boasts plans for a series of unbeatable troopers. 

Spice and slave trade continues to procure a truly disgusting amount of credits for Zurban, no doubt, but a good deal of his earnings are being funneled into investments. But these - these are obviously never meant to have been seen by you or Leena. 

Leena...how she had ever gotten hold of his private accounts, you don’t know - don’t want to know - but she must have seen this and thought she could get away with skimming. The accountant must’ve been convincing for her to take a risk like this. 

Zurban is funding the reemergence of the Empire. 

It is with dawning horror, and shaking hands, that you realize what you hold in your hands. Leena is dead, she has to be for what she found. The Mythrol will be interrogated and tortured and then he will be dead. And you might end up the same way because you are seeing exactly what Zurban wants to hide. 

You confess your fears to Utii when Zurban goes to attend a feast with a distant cousin. 

“This isn’t what I thought it would be,” you say diplomatically. You’ve always kept your head down. You deal in the politics of the underworld, of the movements of new gangs, the shifting tides of the New Republic, the Imperial Remnants, wars on distant planets, cultural studies because you understand diplomacy and adaptation. This isn’t diplomacy, this isn’t anything like what you’ve faced before. This is preparation for an invasion. Zurban always struck you as more mild than most Hutts. 

You are wrong. So, so, so wrong. 

Utii’s antennapalps tune in to you, and her liquid silver eyes bear into yours, molten and knowing. “My friend. I have some advice for you now. Listen closely.” 

Your breath catches in your throat and you nod silently. 

“This will pass, but Zurban is very displeased by how his affairs were handled. This is...a monumental setback for his plans. Note that he is watching you, carefully.” She leans in and the grainy video call distorts her image when she does. “And so am I. I risked a great deal for both of you and _Leena_ ,” she spits the name, “was a blow to my credibility. Do not follow her footsteps, yes?” 

The calls cuts and you are left in the darkened room shivering in your flight suit wondering just how much of Leena’s beating was ordered by Zurban and how much by Utii. It’s a split that chills you. You notice that not once did Utii bring her up until now. 

You work faster, waiting until the Mandalorian is back from whatever bounty Zurban had ushered his way. He is to return with the bounty and then return you to Nar Shaddaa - there will be a fee for taxiing you there for his troubles. 

Greef Karga is generous and charming in the way you recognize military oriented politicians to have been. He is conscientious of you, prevents any of the Guild members from interacting with you, and very kindly locks you in your suite. You prod him about his adventures with flattery and adoring, wide stupid eyes as though he’s so very interesting and different. He reveals more than you would have advised, if that weren’t your intention. 

You are afraid all the time now. It is a thrum in your throat, a tremor in your hands, an ever creeping, disorienting addition to your insomnia. You stretch and perform for yourself, feeling naked without your costumes and silks. The tension never leaves. You hope that the Mandalorian returns quickly from whatever hunt Zurban has cleared him for, and simultaneously hope he never returns because you don’t know how far this wire you’re walking on stretches. 

It is then you begin to tap at the bathroom window patiently with your metal spoon. 

It is a bright day when Greef enters your room, knocking politely and letting himself in only after you announce you’re decent for visitors - although truthfully he is your pleasant warden. 

“Good news!” he says, arms open wide as if to receive grand applause. “Mando has returned. The bounty is completed and by tomorrow you should be returned to Nar Shaddaa. I’ve spoken briefly with Zurban,” he continues on, friendly face charismatic and handsome even in dim lighting, even in dim circumstances. He sits on the chair opposite of your work desk, datapad and disks, chips, tools and reference guides strewn along the surface. He puts his weight on the elbow resting on his knee. “He is very pleased you’ve done so well. He’ll be throwing more jobs my way through your work, and for that, I am grateful.” 

Your spine nearly straightens into tense caution, but you shove it down. A siren of past experiences and paranoia wails like a klaxon in your ears. “You’re too kind…” 

“I’ve let Mando know to ferry you back, and don’t mind him, he’s a, shall we say, recalcitrant fellow. He’ll get you there. Now, is there anything I might offer you while I’m here?” He asks, clapping his hands together as he stands. 

Your life stretches out in front of you. Greef Karga’s eyes are kind. You were able to look up his previous life in your time sequestered away while being exposed to more and more secrets you are better off not knowing. 

“You’ve been so hospitable...I don’t want to bother you, but if I could request some body lotion? Nevarro is very dry and the climate controls are not easy on my skin…” You trace your fingers over your arms, hugging yourself, drop your eyes so your lashes touch your cheeks. 

Greef clears his throat. “Of course, of course. A lady is used to...more luxuries than a grizzled man of the Guild. My apologies.” 

You smile. “Nothing to apologize for.” 

The lotion appears after he leaves, sent by a courier with a complimentary herb sachet meant for bathing. You grind the herbs into a powder as best you can with the spoon provided in the suite and wrap the sachet to your nondominant wrist. In your small coarseweave bag provided by Utii you stuff emergency supplies you unpeel from the self-help closet of the suite which amount to a pitiful list: a self-refilling civilian survival class vaporator bead, first aid (most of which is gone) kit, and dried nutrient paste and sugar packets. 

You don’t know how soon the Mandalorian will come for you. 

The bathroom window is small, too small for you to fit normally, but you are flexible and most importantly desperate. 

The sensor beam is easily extracted - really it would be insulting how stupid people think dancers and sex workers are if it didn’t fall to your favor - and you stow it away for safe keeping. You may need to pawn it.

You take none of the recovered datachips or disks and you leave the pad after copying as much information as you could onto a jailbroken, older model left behind in the suite. 

Greef had meant to entertain you and show you how well read he is. Your exclamations of impressed affection pay off now; there are no novels, articles on the pad any longer.

You wrap your neck and head tightly if only to protect yourself as much as possible. Much of your underwear is stowed away. 

You flex and prepare, rethink things several times over, but night begins to fall. The Mandalorian will be here soon, or a Guild member, and your chance will be lost. A hacked map shows that there is a hotel system built atop of a ruined transport line accessible through the bathroom closet of room A103 - you have no weapons, you are no soldier or spy or warrior, but you will not allow the blade over your neck to come down without doing something. 

The window gives with the barest amount of pressure. Days of forming careful cracks so as to not make any noise work in your favor. The glass falls out and you smooth the ridges out as much as possible. You wait for a reaction, hear none, and send your flight suit out, weighed down by your bag to hopefully cover as much of the glass as possible. 

You use all the lotion and even getting a grip on the window ledge is difficult. You slip once and nearly fall, and you prick yourself on a glass shard when you finally heave yourself up. You twist your legs through first, one at a time, keeping your knees bent as you slowly slide backwards, ass first into the world. Glass fragments scrape your belly. 

There is no turning back. 

You fall on your bag, and one foot crunches in glass. You hold in your shout, bite your lip until it bleeds and stand, naked and head wrapped in the alley. 

It is oddly quiet. 

You dress quickly, pulling on your boots and suit after patting yourself with sand to rid yourself of some of the slickness. 

You have no detonator in you - you were never collared as such and had been deemed a low-risk slave - but you have a tracker. When you had been captured and tagged, it had been a very low budget operation; it is a disk beneath your skin and isn’t in your bloodstream. Once it’s out, it’ll send out a homing beacon. Time slips as you brace yourself for impact. 

You feel for it on your scalp, touch the raised circular area, and breathe. In the mostly used first aid kit, there is a scalpel. It’s cold when you apply it to the area and you retreat once before steeling yourself. There is no going back. This is the moment, your moment. The cut barely stings and you try to keep a steady hand even though you can’t see and out it pops. You hear it drop to the ground behind you. A fifth of the size of a calamari flan. You launch it back into the bathroom through the window you just came out of and - 

Are seized with the realization that you are _free_ . And are and may forever be in danger because of that but you are _free_. 

You creep slowly in the direction of the hotel, scalpel in your flight suit trouser pocket and a patch of healing gel on your scalp to stop the blood. You leave your head and neck wrapped, draw the hood down a little to obscure the upper half of your face. 

Your plans for escape burn before your eyes. Hunters crawl all around the hotels and buildings, looking for something. You? Already? No - no, no, no you should’ve had more time than this, this is wrong. Zurban couldn’t have already known, unless you missed a camera in the room? Had he simply been waiting for you to slip? 

You stumble into another alley, go towards the outskirts of town. You hear blasterfire, sounds of violence behind you. You stay ready, close to the edges of buildings even as you seek to leave them. 

You are dead. Done for. You had one plan and before you can even attempt escape, you are left adrift. 

And - you see it. Salvation, maybe. 

It’s the Mandalorian’s ship, ramp lowered. 

You hear blasterfire behind you again, shouting, and run to the ship. Perhaps you can bargain with the Mandalorian - you hope against hope, Nar Shaddaa isn’t for dreamers but you will never ever go back there. You can afford to hope and dream and _you will_ , damn it. 

You scramble up the ramp, gasping for air and run into something in the darkness of the hold - 

“You, too? I can’t believe Mando roped you into this,” Greef Karga’s face grimaces down at you in disappointment. “I don’t strike beautiful women, but I have been known to make exceptions in extraordinary circumstances.” 

He cuffs you in the back of the head and you tilt -

Back - 

Back - 

You can’t hear anything and the world goes dark when Greef steps over you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was longer than intended but splitting it wasn't working so...have fun. tysm for all the love, pls gimme love again. next chapter will be more about interpersonal communication and how din is Bad At That (at first)


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